So, yes, that's still a long way off. I always feel odd promoting things that have not yet been written.
Today's homework, kittens: Irony ≠ coincidence.
Irony: An incongruity between what might be expected and what actually occurs.
Coincidence: A sequence of events that, although random/accidental, appears to have been planned or arranged.
There's not much to report on the workfront. On Wednesday, I tried to begin a piece called "Wormchild." I worked on it all day, and, in the end, had 308 words to show for my efforts:
Though by the standards of men and women the width and breadth of her memory is al-most incalculable, even she does not recall more than the dimmest suggestions of the one who fathered her. If she tries, and if she tries very hard, she can only just begin to recollect restless, scaly coils that might have held and crushed all the world in their constricting embrace, had he’d so chosen. She only almost recollects needle spines and furnace eyes and jaws that dripped with the blood of fallen angels. But, beyond mere memory, there is what she knows, all the indisputable facts of his existence which are now and always will be branded on the ocean’s soul and in the mind’s eye of even its least inhabitant. Of her mother, she knows nothing whatsoever, and all her questioning as never yet coaxed the sea or the lands beneath the sea to whisper her mother’s name or any hint of who and what she might have been. Perhaps, I’d no need of a mother. Perhaps He had no need of a wife. She has thought these thoughts and has fancied immemorial Father Leviathan as asexual as a sea star, a sponge, or flatworm, spawning his children from fragments of himself broken free during mighty hurricanes. Then each bit would germinate in its own time, borne round about the globe on currents, countercurrents, undercurrents, by thermohaline circulation and tropical upwellings. It is to her a not unpleasant tale, and in certain moods she’s more than willing to let it pass for truth. But, were it true, she would surely have many sisters and brothers, and never in all the ages of her life has she encountered a single one. He gave her no name, and she has never felt the poorer for that. Five hundred million years ago, as the
Yep, I stopped mid-sentence, realizing this was headed nowhere.
Yesterday, I decided I'd write a story about cats in Innsmouth, because, as has been pointed out my editors, I don't write stories about cats. Which may be seen as somewhat peculiar, since cats have always been an important part of my life. I came up with a title, "The Cats of River Street (1925)." I stared at the computer. I got sleepy, and my stomach was giving me fits (thank you, meds), so I went to lie down for a few minutes. I woke up an hour later.
This is how things have been going, as regards work.
Today, I'll try to begin this story. I desperately want to have Sirenia Digest #102 out before the end of July.
Centipede Press news: The Drowning Girl: A Memoir has gone to press (in Hong Kong)! I don't yet have a release date, but the book is up on the CP homepage. I've also begun work with Centipede Press on a collection of my "mythos" fiction, to be titled Houses Under the Sea: Mythos Tales. It will be lushly illustrated by divers hands, and I believe it will be published in 2015.
Today, after two months, I finally reached my treatment dose on the Lamictal, 150 mg. Since early or mid-June, I've seen a dramatic improvement, as regards the mood and general sanity, so it seems to be working. I haven't yet seen much improvement in my ability to concentrate. I've made Kathryn promise to have me committed if I ever again decide to go off my meds.
And really, that's it for today. I have to write. I have to remember that nothing else matters except the writing.
Compared to Some,